Anthony Mott

Conversations with my mother 11

In plain sight
At the end of days
Lies in wait
The melted chill
Of sodden ground.
The elderly limp toward
Childhood
They are blessed,
I remember
I don’t remember
I need to remember
I can’t remember
No dignity held
Only the threat of
Fading language
Clamped memories
Occasional sparks
The years…disengaged
Battery bright,
Then faded
But always and forever
Dimmed electricity
Of the dis-enfranchised
And abandoned

Copyright © Anthony Mott 2016

I am an unpublished  57 year old manager in an FE college with a love of language, cats and Sabrina.

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About sunnydunny

Poet, publisher, gardener
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